


Chamomile Tea and Vases

by Salted_Coffee_Beans



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley cries, M/M, Not for the reasons you might think, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 05:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19941061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salted_Coffee_Beans/pseuds/Salted_Coffee_Beans
Summary: He feels his world blurring at the edges."Angel, how do you always have this effect on me?"





	Chamomile Tea and Vases

**Author's Note:**

> This was conjured from a 1 am thought. I swear it was only gonna be like, what? 500 words? Yeah, right-
> 
> I'm currently experimenting with my writing style so if anything sounds awkward, I'm deeply sorry.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy what I've wrote and have a nice day!
> 
> Lightly beta'd by my mom, kiwi, and my platonic soulmate, Avi. (They're really cool people!! You can check Kiwi out at kowbojki and Avi at avilikestoart on Tumblr and Instagram!!)
> 
> quick edit: I am such an ignorant fool and completely forgot that they're cuddling naked. It shouldn't sound strange now because I accidentally wrote Aziraphale with a shirt.

The blanket was strewn over their naked bodies, the moment intimate and fragile as if the smallest of hushed whispers could break it. Like a vase threatening to fall over the edge of it's designated place, waiting for just the right time to crash. The impact earth-shattering the moment it hits the floor, bits and pieces of itself scattered and broken in so many different places.

Like any other day, it starts off in the bookshop. The familiar scent of vanilla filling his lungs, a hint of cinnamon in the air (and the lingering smell of burning ashes, but we don't talk about that), books messily stacked across the floor, and soft classical music playing from the gramophone Aziraphale owns, old thing it was, a rather treasured trinket like all the books kept here (I hope you'll treasure me, keep me for all eternity, I'll be yours and you'll be mine. Please, before I burn down and lose you in the fiery pits that once set ablaze, long ago).

Like any other day, it starts off with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale's soft face and his soft smiles, his soft-spoken words and his soft hands holding onto Crowley's calloused one's ever so gently like he'd break if he adds just that tad bit too much pressure.

_Like a vase._

It's the small little things that leave him breathless. Small differences that changes everything about their relationship, like how they would stand closer than necessary to feel the warmth radiating from each other's bodies, the curves of their pinkies latching on to one another to keep each other close, to not lose the other, to always be together, bonded by an invisible string of fate and the fragility of a winning streak in poker (hold me close and hold me closer, stay beyond my reach. I'd do anything to be able to be with you in our own side. Away from snobby twats and rancid fucks. Promise me that you'll never leave).

And then there's the big things, the big differences that means so much to him. Threatens to drown and overwhelm him with euphoria, happiness so obviously strong that his love could only chuckle and joke about how it looked like the demon was glowing. _‘Could probably fool an angel into thinking you're one of them, darling’_ , he said as he goes to his tippy toes, trying to kiss the demon's temple.

Crowley smiles, leaning down to meet his angel halfway through the kiss (his mouth tasting of fermented fruit while his angel tasted like chamomile with a side of saccharine).

"Would you like some alcohol, my dear?" Aziraphale pushes Crowley off of him gently, those gleaming eyes peering up at him, ever ethereal with its sky blue beauty, pulling his golden yellows in like a black hole (it should be illegal to look as good as you, it should be a crime).

"Sure, angel." _Yes, please. He's thirsty, satiate the desert that inhabits his throat with your sweet flower kisses. Fill it with the wishes of an oasis you'll forever make room to give._

He remembers seeing Aziraphale handing him a glass. Filled with the red-tinted liquid he'd come familiar with.

And then he was _gone_.

Some time after, he finds himself on top of a feather-soft bed and under warm fluffy blankets only Aziraphale would own with said angel beside him, snoring lightly (the soft subtle twitches of your nose and the faint quirk on your lips, a reassurement that you're alive, that you didn't turn to dust. I'm so glad you didn't, I don't know how I'd live without you).

Memories of last night seep into his mind rather slowly. Talks about faes and unicorns and creatures that don't exist, of humans and their latest inventions that Aziraphale couldn't seem to get his head over how to use, continuous laughs and cries over the most stupidly strange things they would find abnormal shared together in their drunken stupor ("Humans are killing beavers, Crowley. They need to chew on wood so their teeth wouldn't grow too long. Do you know how painful having really long buck teeth is like?" Aziraphale cries on top of his shoulder as he feels his own tears dropping from, somewhere). It was everything and nothing at the same time.

And then there was the lingering of tongues and teeth. Crashing of body parts over each other, trying to taste every inch of skin and mark every space within reach. _I've craved you for so long, these feelings that I've locked inside my heart for 6000 years, all the yearnings I've suppressed in fear of you disappearing when I unlock them. I've loved you for 6000 years and I will continue to love you if you let me._

And he remembers the hands on his hips, the tug on his clothes, his angel's eyes telling him to _put them off or I'll be the one to do it._

So he obliges, stripping down in front of Aziraphale. Peeling off his second skin with the elegance of a newborn baby deer, throwing his clothes off to somewhere around the bookshop (if they were a bit more sober, Aziraphale would probably scold him for his carelessness, to pick them up and put them in the laundry basket that resides in his room. No, he thinks he could safely call it their room, their safe space from the sides they were rejected from. But they'd drank a glass too many and thoughts of being mannerly were out of the window).

He wasn't sure if they proceeded to continue on with the escapade, but the lack of pain in his backside says otherwise and Crowley would've been okay either way.

Finally deciding to open up his eyes, his pupils contracting in the dark of their room, turning to clean-cut vertical lines that can stare down prey into shivering leaves, fill them with so much fear that they would be left with no choice but to run away ("I rather quite like your eyes." You once said to me, voice unwavering and kind and everything I wish I could believe in). He turns his body to the side and watches his angel peacefully breathing through his nose, in and out and in and out. Chest rising and falling in tempo, like a metronome's continuous monotonous ticking.

He raises his left hand slowly (something akin to bones and dried over wrinkles and nothing like his angel's), hovering it on top of Aziraphale's cheek before placing it down, caressing the points that make of his face.

"I love you." The demon says, barely above a whisper. The words that rolled out of his mouth sweet and tender and oh, so vulnerable.

And then he feels Aziraphale's breath hitches.

"My dear," he says, voice rough and thick, tainted with the edges of sleep yet lips upturned to the purest of smiles. "I love you too."

And the vase _shatters_.

His pupils dilate, his mouth hangs open, he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't concentrate. His visions all blurry and the side of his face feels wet.

Oh.

_Oh._

He's crying, isn't he? Why is he crying?

"Oh, Crowley dear. Are you crying?" And that twist of concern in Aziraphale's face, how his eyebrows furrow and how he anxiously bites on his lips. It teethers him off and a new wave of tears form once more.

"It's okay, angel." He pauses to choke on his own spit, "I just got holy water stuck in my eye."

And there goes Crowley's chances to ever being a successful demon (like he was ever one anyway).

"Sweetheart," Aziraphale presses a soft kiss to his temple that makes him melt just a little. "I know you never really think before you act but that's probably the dumbest lie I've heard from you, and trust me. I've heard enough bad ones over the last 6000 years I've known you." He feels his shoulders relaxing to the feeling of a hand playing with the strands of his hairs, chokes on another sob, tries to stop the tears. They won't stop.

"Angel, please." He begs. Doesn't know what he's begging for, doesn't know what he's asking for, but Aziraphale's right there and he has this strong urge under his skin to keep himself in place and scoot closer but also get away from his touch.

"Hey, honey. It's okay." The angel that he is, continues to reassure Crowley, continues to be so kind to him, continues to make him feel so loved. (Can we stay like this forever? Just you and me, on this bed, in each other’s arms? Legs tangled into knots and our bodies melding into one?)

He decides to scoot closer into Aziraphale's hold. Arms reaching out and under to cup the small of his back, head resting on top of his angel's chest. He can hear Aziraphale's quickening breaths from here, this close on top of his beating heart, his soft porcelain skin dampening quickly because of his tears.

"I love you, angel." It comes out muffled and wavery. The only indication of him ever talking were the vibrations of his voice spreading through Aziraphale's body. "My star, my universe, my cosmos."

He suddenly feels a hand wriggling through his hips, fingers reaching its destination on his back drawing continuous arrays of hearts from big to small, but every shape made no less meaningful.

"I love you too, Crowley." Look up to those sky blue eyes and you could see the sun, go higher to see his soft cloud hair, and go down then you'll see his soft kissable lips. (Kiss me please, I want you to kiss me, it's tiring to hide it anymore. Please just kiss me.)

They share a kiss in the dark, Aziraphale's lips enveloping his. The kiss slow and sweet and everything that he wants.

He continues to cry as both of them smile. Blindingly bright and goofy. He probably looks stupid with it, always uncharacteristic of him to adorn this fairly new look on his face.

But _hell_ if he wasn't happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism always appreciated and welcomed!!!
> 
> Please leave a kudos and drop in a comment if you enjoyed it! It makes me so happy to know if someone actually likes my content!


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